As the car rolled over, time slowed for Virgil Odoco. He felt each metal crunch of his green ‘97 Corolla violently somersaulting down the snow-covered hill. He heard the spinning wheels in search of ground, but finding only air. The ceiling became floor, then returned to ceiling. His belongings pummeled him as they tumbled throughout the car. Yet it all seemed to happen so slowly— almost incrementally— like watching a winter moon wander across the night sky.

He had enough time to think: This is how I should die. Maybe he’d be reunited with his parents and brother.

He had no friends or relatives to miss him. He hadn’t held a job in months and was living out of his car. His savings were all spent. So in truth, Virgil looked at the prospect of an impending death as a relief. Moreover, he’d no longer be living with the guilt of having killed his family.

Tonight, when he spotted the giant buck, he thought first of his father, a memory from a lifetime ago. Virgil was 14, on the far edge of boyhood. His dad had just returned from a fishing trip.

The blue pick-up truck pulled into the driveway with a cracked front grill and dent in the hood. His dad stepped out of the truck, walked back to the flatbed and dragged out a dead, medium-sized doe. He said, “Son, always aim for the deer in the road. Never try to avoid it. Otherwise, you’ll be the one who ends up with a broken neck.”

Tragically, four years later, Virgil couldn’t follow that advice. Up in Alvin, Minnesota, where his family vacationed every year, he was his parents’ designated driver on the way back from a family dinner at the Pinewood Tavern. He swerved to avoid a small doe crossing the road. The pickup flipped over. Virgil escaped with only minor injuries. His parents and 11-year-old brother, Victor, died.

Tonight, Virgil was driving recklessly on small snow-covered roads, 60 miles north of Alvin. His dashboard clock read 12:34 a.m. The blizzard that the radio was forecasting had begun in earnest.

When the large buck with nine-point antlers stepped in front of his Corolla, he thought: Aim for the deer. Except tonight, he purposefully disregarded his dad’s advice. Virgil had long believed he deserved the broken neck. Now was his time for redemption. He swerved and lost control of the car… And time slowed.

Eventually, the Corolla did stop rolling. It crashed into the forest and landed sideways, leaning up against a large aspen tree. The airbag exploded from the steering wheel in a bellowing storm of dust. Dazed, Virgil hung from his seat by the seatbelt. His churned-up belongings, including a broken cell phone, had tumbled down to the passenger side.

He carefully released the seatbelt and lowered himself down. He rummaged through everything that had settled on the passenger door and window. He pulled out a large red backpack containing emergency supplies and stuffed into it another blanket, some clothes, and a nearly full bag of beef jerky. He struggled pulling on his dad’s old camouflage insulated hunting suit, which Virgil wore in the car on cold nights. He pulled on his winter boots, thick gloves, hat with a face mask, and scarf.

By the time he was finished, snow had covered the windows. He reached up and muscled open the driver’s side door. A mound of snow fell in on him. He shook it off and shoved the backpack out of the car. It fell to the ground with a soft thud. Virgil pulled himself out and jumped to the ground, rousing a whiplash-aching in his body and head.

The snow howled around him.

The immense forest stood before him.

The small road lay up the hill behind him.

He turned for the road when something moved in the snowy underbrush. Virgil recognized the antlers of the deer that he’d nearly hit. The buck was headed north into the forest.

His dad’s voice came to him.

Aim for the deer, son.

Virgil weighed his depressing life against the possibility of freezing to death. He strapped on his backpack and followed the deer into the forest.

Snow whipped between pine, oak, and aspen trees. The deer couldn’t have been more than five minutes ahead, yet the animal’s tracks were quickly disappearing into the blowing snow.

For a long hour, Virgil fought the wind while trudging through the knee-high snow. His tired legs burned. Then, in a small clearing about 20 yards out, he glimpsed the deer. It was hobbling. Upon hiking closer, he saw the buck’s left rear leg hanging awkwardly from its body. He must have hit the deer with his car after all.

Suddenly a pack of eight snarling wolves exploded from behind the trees and toppled the injured buck. The wolves needed little effort to fell their prey. The exhausted buck never even attempted to use his antlers in defense.

As if warning Virgil to stay away, the nearly full moon briefly broke through the cloud cover, casting a pale blue light down upon the feeding frenzy. Virgil stopped walking. He then clambered up a nearby oak tree.

He watched the melee from above, pondering the meaning of it all. Pondering the dearth of meaning in his life.

When the cloud-muffled pink hues of dawn finally arrived, the mauling was finished. Virgil stayed crouched in the tree. He was unexpectedly warm. The blizzard had wound down and the wolf pack had departed. All that was left of the deer were scattered tufts of fur and one antler surrounded by drifting snow, tinged pink with blood. As he descended the tree, a lone gray wolf with a black patch of fur across its muzzle came sniffing where the deer had fallen.

Virgil stopped moving. The skinny wolf searched for scraps. Finding none, it eventually skulked away. Virgil decided this lone wolf was likely the outcast of its pack— a role he understood well. Yet the outcast wolf was still trying to survive.

Virgil climbed down the tree and trudged over to the antler. He held it up, turning it over in his gloved hands— five points. His thoughts drifted from the dead deer, to his dead family, to the outcast wolf.

With antler in hand, he hiked deeper into the forest. Maybe he’d find meaning there.